Giradin found it difficult to pretend he belonged when he crept through the halls of the monastery dressed in his plague doctor uniform. It was the dead of night and the moon was as black as Giradin's coat. The starlight would not give him away, and even if he was spotted, his mask would hide his identity.

Eventually, he came to a place where the halls were pitch black. He knew that in that darkness lay the isolation cells, where Sir Bertran had been locked away.

Since he'd not thought to bring a lantern, Giradin placed his left hand on the wall and followed it along while he felt the ground before him with his cane. Every so often, he felt a gap in the stone wall, and his glove ran along the grains of a wooden door. Whenever this happened, he leaned in close and whispered, "Sir Bertran? Are you in there?"

Usually, he received no response, but every so often a patient inside would mumble curses at him.

The harsh, wet coughs of the patients within made Giradin grateful for his suit. Though doors stood between him and the plague-ridden patients, he feared the miasma might otherwise slip under the door and infect him if he drew too close. He could only imagine the foul smell here, a smell his mask protected him from.

A warm glow peered around a corner up ahead.

Giradin froze in place, fear turning his body to ice. He'd never learned what the punishment for insubordination was, he'd been too terrified to find out. He'd not gotten Melcher Fitz's permission to visit Sir Bertran, as Shlomo had told him, Fitz was still away from the monastery.

The light drew closer. Should he turn and run? No, he'd still be spotted, and a fleeing doctor would look far more suspicious than one at rest.

Giradin stood his ground, with his back resting against the wall, trying to look as casual as possible, though his hands trembled.

Another plague doctor, in full uniform, rounded the corner, a lantern in his hand. Light made the lenses of the doctor's mask look like the glowing eyes of some bizarre monster as he looked Giradin over and tilted his head to one side. "Standing guard?" came Fulk's voice from beneath the mask.

Would Fulk give Giradin away if he heard his voice? He couldn't be sure. Giradin merely nodded his head.

Fulk snorted. "Great job keeping watch without a light." The murderer sighed and shook his head. "You're here to visit Sir Bertran too, right? Shlomo's too much of a rule-monger for this... So, that leaves Mu and Giradin. Which one are you?"

Giradin's jaw dropped within his mask, but he closed it again and said nothing.

"So, Giradin," Fulk said, drawing closer to his companion.

"Umm... aye..." said Giradin.

Sir Bertran's voice spoke from behind one of the wooden doors. "You came to visit me? How thoughtful." His voice was hoarse, and followed by a wet cough so violent it made Giradin wince.

Fulk set his lantern down on the stone floor and leaned against the wall next to Sir Bertran's door. Two wooden beams and two chains held the door shut. In Sir Bertran's case this seemed unnecessary, but Giradin realized that other patients in isolation cells may be more prone to escape attempts.

Fulk grunted. "If you die they might make me lead the team. So, don't die on us. If you do, I'll piss on your grave."

"You're too kind," came Sir Bertran's sarcastic reply.

Giradin drew closer and rested his fingers on one of the wooden beams. "I've been praying for you. Constantly."

"I appreciate it," said Sir Bertran. "Have you prayed for my soul as well as my recovery?"

Fulk snorted. "Why bother praying for your soul? You're such a damn saint... if God rejects you then to Hell with Him!"

Sir Bertran sighed. "Fulk... I'm dying. Can we refrain from blaspheming just for a little while? Or, at least, can we not speak of Hell?"

Fulk's shoulders sunk. "Dying, hmm? It's certain now?"

"Yes," said Sir Bertran. Giradin's felt as if he'd missed a step on a ladder and was about to fall into an empty void below. "I've got the buboes now. My skin's turning black, and my fever's getting worse. Tomorrow morning, they're going to give me poison so I can die painlessly."

Giradin bit his upper lip and clenched both fists.

"And then they burn you," said Fulk. "Damn..."

"And, you're wrong, by the way," said Sir Bertran.

Fulk turned his head, his beak pointed at the door to Sir Bertran's cell. "About what?"

"I'm not a saint, Fulk. Not at all. I'd say I'm more a sinner than you are. At least you've been honest about your crimes."

"Psh!" Fulk scoffed and shook his head.

"I'm serious!" wheezed Sir Bertran. "And there's something I want you to do for me."

"Anything you need!" said Giradin, his voice wavering.

"Don't go to my funeral," said Sir Bertran. "While everyone else is there, watching my body burn and pretending they knew me well and liked me, go to the old oak on the west end of the monastery. Between the two biggest roots, I buried a chest with some valuables I've... well... gathered over the years."

Fulk chuckled. "You looted the cities we purged, didn't you?"

"Only when there was no one left to claim the goods," said Sir Bertran.

Giradin stared at the door, the best representation he had of Sir Bertran at the moment. "You robbed the dead?" His voice betrayed his appalled disbelief.

"They couldn't take it with them when they left, and they had no one left to inherit it," said Sir Bertran. "And some is from the Crusades as well. Gold taken back from filthy Saracen marauders. Anyway, dig up the chest and take it to the city of Kinhan. There you'll find a woman named Ivette and her daughter, Bethia. Give the chest to them, and tell them it's from me."

Fulk's beak pointed at the door, and he unfolded his arms. "Bethia's your bastard?"

"She's my responsibility," said Sir Bertran. "That's all you need know."

"Come off it, Berty!" Fulk snarled. "Is the girl your daughter or not?"

After a long pause, Sir Bertran said, "No. She's not. But she's the closest thing to a child I'll ever have. Please, you must do this for me. You can each take one thing from the chest as payment."

Giradin opened his mouth to thank Sir Bertran and promise that they'd get the chest to Bethia, but Fulk spoke first, "To Hell with that! I'm not taking some little girl's money. The Devil's got enough reasons to hunt me down!"

"Please!" Sir Bertran pleaded. "This is my last request..."

"We'll get the chest to her," said Fulk. "But we're not taking any of your blood money. Right, Giradin?" The murderer's beak snapped to point at Giradin, and his flashing lenses drilled accusations into his chest.

"Right!" said Giradin. "We won't accept payment."

"Thank you!" said Sir Bertran. Another coughing fit took him, and the two other men stood in uncomfortable silence while the knight tried to collect himself. When the fit had abated, he spoke in a wavering voice. "I want you two to know, we may have only known each other a short time, but in that time you two have been like brothers to me."

"Oh, shit..." Fulk mumbled, "Now you're getting sentimental."

"I mean it!" Sir Bertran said. "In my final days, you were the only family I had."

Fulk leaned against the door and hung his head. "Now that's sad..."

"You're my brother too," said Giradin.

"My brother tried to strangle me when I was a boy," said Fulk. "So... I can't say you've been like a brother to me. But... you've been a friend." The murderer sighed and turned his face up, toward the ceiling. His voice choked, as if the words didn't want to leave his throat but he forced them out. "Thank you, Berty."